


Let Me Help You

by passionettewriter



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionettewriter/pseuds/passionettewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this following prompt: Character A is a hitman assigned to kill Character B. Character A changes their mind.</p><p>Deadpool is Character A, and Spider-man is Character B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doing the Right Thing by Doing the Wrong Thing

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever published fan-fiction! May not be your cup of tea but I really had to type this for myself and other people out there.
> 
> Enjoy!

Today was a silent evening. The weather was too cold for anyone to be outside, but it was the perfect weather for a certain mercenary, who was in the process of setting up his sniper riffle. The mercenary was getting ready to assassinate on this…

“Siiiiileeeent niiiigghht, taaaaaacooo niighht,” sang (horribly) the mercenary, Deadpool.

[Your singing it wrong, you know.] Chimed in the white box, which was one of the (annoying) imaginary voices in Deadpool’s head.

[ **You mean we.** ] Chimed in the yellow box, who was the second (annoying) and last ( _very annoying_ ) imaginary voice in his head.

“Shh, I’m free styling here bitches,” interrupted the merc before he went back to singing.

[No you weren’t.]

[ **But nice save though.** ]

“Seriously, Me’s? I’m singing my solo here and you guys are still talking?”

[ _Noo **ooo**_ **.]** Said both the boxes simultaneously at the same time.

“Fine. Let’s change the mood.” Deadpool roamed his pockets in search for his small iPod. When he found it, he switched to one of his favorite songs.

_“…Uh huh, this my shit. All the girls stomp your feet like this…”_

Deadpool stomped his feet and danced a bit before getting back to set up his little workstation.

[You know it’s been bugging me for a while.]

[ **What’s bugging ya?** ]

[This feeling. It feels like we’re doing something _wrong._ ]

[ **Of course, we’re Deadpool. We always do the wrong thing 90% of the time.** ]

[Yeah, but this feeling… It’s different. And don’t pretend that you don’t feel it because I am you. I am we. And I am _also_ talking to you Deadpool.]

“Yeah, well,” Deadpool shrugged his shoulders, “let’s get through this feeling like we always do: ignore it.”

[ **Fine by me!** ]

[Okay… But I’m still not 100% fine with this…]

“Nonsense! Everything will be _swell_ once we shoot him, or her, with a bullet _spell_ of death.”

[You suck at rhyming Deadpool.]

After fixing his little workshop, Deadpool squatted down and looked into the scope.

[ **Works fine.** ]

“Just one last thing, though…” Deadpool added the silencer to his sniper riffle.

He then looked up and searched for the “crappy” apartment that his customer told him about, but he had no idea of what it looked like. If Deadpool recalled, he remembered his customer on the other end of the phone saying something like “ _You’ll know when you see it_ ”.

“Yeah, like that will help us…”

[ **What about that building over there?** ]

“Oh.” When Deadpool’s customer told him that the person he was assassinating lived in a “crappy” apartment, he imagined an apartment like his own. But instead, he found an apartment that seemed, sure, a little rundown, but still way beyond better than his. “If that’s a ‘crappy’ apartment, then what is ours considered? A dumpster?”

Before any of the two boxes could answer him, he realized the obvious (and very sad) answer to that. “Actually, don’t answer that question.”

Deadpool grabbed his sniper riffle and gently turned it to the left. He then positioned it where it was suppose to be.

‘ _West. Second to the last window. Third row._ ’ He also recalled the man saying.

There was nobody there when he looked into the sniper.

[ **Great, so what now?** ]

“We wait.”

And that’s what they did: wait.

 

 

After listening to 5 repeats of _Hollaback Girl_ and 2 repeats of _London Bridge_ , the soon-to-be-dead man, or woman, that Deadpool has waited for walked into the apartment, turning the lights on.

 **[(S)He’s _heeeerrre_.** ] Said the yellow box, as he tried to imitate a creepy voice from a horror comedy movie they once saw long ago.

[Oh God. _Please,_ don’t ever do that voice again.]

“Shh… You guys are distracting me.” Said Deadpool as he looked into the scope.

The person who had walked into the apartment certainly seemed to have a body figure of a man. Or at least Deadpool thought it was a man. The ‘man’ had a denim-colored hoodie on, making his face unidentifiable. He seemed tall, and thin because of the way his shirt clung loosely against him. His pants looked old and worn out with holes on the ends of the fabric, and his shoes looked like they have been through hell and back.

The mysterious man walked out of the hallway and into the living room. Just as he passes by the kitchen, he threw his keys across the room, making it hit the wall high, sliding down and landing on a hook next to another key. He jumped over and onto the couch, landing in a position that made him look like he was in deep thought. Beside him was a small round table that had an answer machine in the center of it. He pressed a button and leaned back on the couch to listen to the leftover messages.

[ **Maybe you should shoot him now. It seems like a good time to shoot him since he looks like he’s not gonna move anytime soon and all.** ] Said the yellow box.

“Yeah, maybe.” But Deadpool didn’t. He waited to see what would happen next. And he wanted to see what kind of face was hidden underneath the hood of the mysterious man.

Speaking of which, the mysterious man finally took off his hood, revealing a young somber face filled with bruises.

[ **Whoa, what a cutie~!** ]

Deadpool couldn’t agree more.

“I know, I would totally bang that…” Deadpool would’ve said it with a little more enthusiasm, but he was distracted by the now revealed, _young_ , man, and taking in all the details through the scope.

While examining the teen, Deadpool realized three awful things. And it made his chest hurt to think about it.

First of all, the young man was alone. And he seemed too young to even be on his own. He looked like he was barely even seventeen. And the apartment looked very simple— _too_ simple if you ask Deadpool—as if he was the only one who was living there. And there was a most likely chance that he was an orphan, by the way this kid was now looking sadly at a photo that was framed beside him. The framed picture held three blurry figures, too hard to identify clearly enough through Deadpool’s scope, but there was no doubt in Deadpool’s mind that those three figures were his parents and him. The young man gave the photo a small smile—not of the kind that was filled with happiness and joy, but of gratitude, remembrance, and sorrow. His smile also gave a hint of exhaustion, which bothered Deadpool a bit.

Secondly, not only was this kid a lonely orphan, he was struggling. If his clothes, shoes, beaten up face, and run down apartment doesn’t scream struggle, then what does? Upon seeing his beaten face, almost looking half dead, brought Deadpool back into his senses only to realize that he was going to kill this kid, which brings us to the third thing Deadpool realized: he didn’t really want to kill this kid.

And shit.

He had to kill this kid—he _needs_ the money.

So, before Deadpool could get anymore attached to him, or find out what the kid’s name is, he positioned the sniper to aim at the center of the kid’s forehead, slightly repositioning it whenever the kid moved. His forefinger finds the trigger, but doesn’t pull it. He didn’t want to pull it.

[ **Do it. Think about all the money we will have after this mission.** ]

[Don’t do it. I know you feel it too Deadpool. This is wrong, un-unexplainably wrong. I believe that we shouldn’t pull the trigger.. At least not this time, not on this kid.]

[ **Don’t listen to this idiot DP! Just do it for the macaronis!** ]

 _Macaronis_ … Right, that’s why he got this job in the first place.

[ **Do it.** ]

[Don’t do it.]

[ **DO IT.** ]

[Don’t listen to him, Deadpool.]

Deadpool was about to pull the trigger, until he noticed a pair of eyes staring at him. The teen’s eyes slowly widened about a centimeter full of shock, taking in the fact that the last seconds of his life were about to come at an end. The shock quickly disappeared as fast as it had come.

The teen gave him a small sad smile before he said it, the words that would be able to allow Deadpool to pull the trigger without holding back.

_Shoot me._

Deadpool’s finger, once again, was held around the trigger.

[No, STOOO—] And he pulled.

Deadpool… Deadpool pulled the trigger.

A pair of eyes, that were supposed to be lifeless, looked up at Deadpool in confusion. Deadpool didn’t return the stare. Instead, he just looked at a window that he broke with the bullet he shot, just above the teen’s window—pretending as if he was meant to do that on purpose, as if his mission was to assassinate someone up there and not the teen himself.

[ **What the fuck, Deadpool! What about our money?! This wasn’t part of the orders! Why can’t you just do anything right?!?!** ]

And that was exactly the thing. Deadpool doesn’t do anything right, he does the wrong thing 90% of the time. And today happened to be one of those days where he didn’t even feel like doing the right thing, which was following orders.

“Fuck orders.”

And the white couldn’t have been more satisfied.


	2. (Trying Not to) Think About THAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the case where Deadpool tries to not think about IT.

In every alleyway that was hidden in between the apartments of New York City, flashes of a red and black spandex suit appeared over the empty space in between the rooftops. Panting could be heard for a few seconds as it flies by, as well as the incoming of footsteps, and the fading of footsteps. This figure was too fast to be caught by the human eye, but not entirely impossible, for a little 9-year-old boy unconsciously dropped his lollipop from his mouth, because he had just witnessed the all-infamous mercenary, Deadpool, waving randomly at him just as the merc passes by over, and onto the next roof.

Deadpool gave a halfhearted chuckle at the kid’s reaction, just as he landed on the roof, not missing a beat in his fast jogging pace. Usually, he would have made a comment or two about it to his fellow box mates in his head, but his mind was rather preoccupied in something else.

Deadpool was thinking about not thinking about that thing that he did not want to think about, but still sort of thought about because he was trying to not think about it.  

And by, that he means…

“No, stop thinking about it.”

[Think about what?] The white box asked.

“Nothing,” Deadpool said as his mouth turned into a thin line, forbidding himself to think about the answer to that question. “Absolutely nothing.”

 

 

Throughout the day, Deadpool had run in three different paces: even, fast, and slow. Most of the time, he kept jogging at an even pace. But whenever he was about to think about _that_ , his pace would go faster. He would go at a fast pace for a long while, “and nothing would stop him” is what he had thought, just right before he sees a taco truck, which slowed down his pace to a stop. And then he would order a churro from the dessert menu, eat, continue jogging—back into his regular, even, pace—until he’s on the verge of thinking about _that_ thing again, and then start jogging faster which repeats the process all over again.

This routine happened for about more than four times.

At some point, the sky got darker, and the infamous mercenary was still running. Though, this time, he was not following the earlier routine anymore. He just kept running and running, not even stopping when he saw another taco truck to get another order of churros. This worried the white box a bit, because Deadpool hasn’t been acting himself today. Actually, he’s been worried ever since he had caught a glimpse of Deadpool’s thoughts in the morning. He just never said anything because he believed that Deadpool was going to get over it, but many hours later and Deadpool wasn’t _still_ over it. And now, things were just getting a little ridiculous.

Whitey was kind of annoyed towards Deadpool’s actions, but was more concerned than annoyed. And because he felt like it was the right thing to do (and even more so since they were kind of related, “twins”, you can almost say), he decided to talk to Deadpool about it, and maybe even give Deadpool some advice.

[Deadpool…] Called the white softly in Deadpool’s head, to which Deadpool didn’t reply. He tried again. [ _Deadpool._ ]

“What?” Replied the annoyed merc.

[I know what you’re thinking.]

“I’m not thinking anything.”

[Yes, _you are._ I am you, remember?]

Deadpool shrugged as he continuously carried on with his fast paced jog. “Nope, don’t remember at all. Sorry.”

The white box groaned and mentally slapped himself, or in this case, he mentally slapped Deadpool.

[Deadpool.]

Nothing, no reply from the mercenary.

[ _Deadpool._ ]

Again, no reply.

[Deadpool, _STOP_!]

Deadpool abruptly stopped running and threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Wha the hell d’ya want?!”

[I want you to talk!]

“Talk? There’s _nothing_ to talk about!”

[Yes there is! You’re thinking about _raising_ **that** kid yourself!]

“No, I wasn’t!”

[Well, that’s what it _looked like_ to me.]

“I wasn’t! It was just—I was thinking—GAH! Yellow, help me out here.”

[ **…** ]

“Okay, great. Thanks for your help, I feel _so_ _fucking_ _supported_.” Said the merc sarcastically.

Feeling frustrated, Deadpool walked towards the ledge of the building and sat on it, letting his legs swing out his feelings. Noticing at how tense he was, Deadpool cooled himself down for a bit, and thought for a moment before speaking. “Look… I know that we are not responsible ~~or sane enough~~ to raise him… But we can still help him, right?”

[Right… But did you forget that you _almost_ shot him yesterday, and that he most likely _knows_ how we look like? I mean I know it was dark, but the night isn’t _that_ dark. So if sees us, he’ll probably just recognize us enough for him to run the other way. And we can’t just walk into his apartment and say “ _Hey kid. I’m sorry for almost shooting your brains out yesterday but let me help you._ ” I mean, what kind of an idiot would do that?]

“…”

[Oh, right… _Anyways_ , I don’t think we have any chances of helping that kid. Plus, we shouldn’t get involved in other peoples lives.] Whitey said. He then continued with a hint of sadness in his tone, [They always, somehow, end up _dying_.]

“…I know… BUT WHAT IF—“

[Deadpool, no. Don’t start.] Interrupted Whitey.

Deadpool stayed quiet for a second before continuing in the exact same cheery tone that he had before, and acting almost as if he had never been interrupted. “—I could help him out indirectly, and _secretly_. He won’t know me, and I won’t know him. Nobody will know that I was ever involved in that kid’s life because of my good ninja skillz and all that stuff. This way, I will be able to help him and he will be able to live a happier life. It’s a win-win.”

[That sounds like a _really_ good idea Deadpool.] Whitey commented, before pointing out the flaws in Deadpool’s plan. [Just one thing though, how are you going to help him out indirectly?]

“You know, by providing him food in his fridge, clothes, etcetera etcetera.” And maybe, just possibly, or most likely kill anybody who will harm the kid in any way, starting with whoever turned that kid’s face into a sad male version of Mona Lisa (Author’s Note: You know how Mona Lisa has that mysterious hidden smile on her face? Well, Peter is just the opposite of that: a sad, small, little smile that was almost hiding in his face).

[Yeah. And here’s the flaw in your plan: the kid is find out that there is somebody watching over him, and it’s his choice whether to see it as creepy or not.]

“Well, we’ll just leave a note that says ‘God is watching over you, and not in a creepy sicko way.’”

[ _And_ of course you would. Which is why I’m not exactly 100% on board with this.]

“Fine, I’ll just write him something… nicer?” Deadpool said the last word as if it was his first hearing it.

[That’s very reassuring, but nope.]

“Oh, come one,” whined Deadpool, “ _why nooot??!_ ”

[Because I said so and that’s final.]

“… _Fine_.”

Deadpool got up and stretched. He climbed his way down the building by the uneven walls, where red bricks were popping out at random angles ad was long enough for him to grab a hold of. When he reached the floor of the alleyway, he headed out into the streets towards his future destination that he had long-planned in his mind for a while now.

[Where are we going?]

“Towards the mall…”

The answer made Whitey suspicious. [And where else?]

“…And a food market.”

Whitey mentally slapped himself.

Of course, whitey may be a part of Deadpool’s mind, but in reality, Deadpool is the one who controls his own body, so Deadpool is the one who gets the final word in everything.

“Alright, let’s go get some food and clothes for baby boy!” Said the merc as he pumped fist the air.

[Baby boy?]

“Yeah, that’s what I have decided to call him, since he’s got that baby face and he’s still like a baby and all.”

[Baby boy...] Whitey said, trying out the name in his voice. [Hmm, I think… I think I like it.]

If whitey had his own face, he would most likely be casting a small smile right now.


	3. Mornings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornings.

Peter woke up, squinting, to the sound of music being played from the kitchen, and to the smell of pancakes—but not just _any_ pancakes, _blueberry_ pancakes! He sniffed the aroma, inhaling it for a long time and… _oh my goodness_ , that… _That_ smells delicious. It was like the smell of heaven’s breakfast, which was how glorious the smell was to Peter. Peter stood there in bed, sniffing the aroma in some more, in a childish like manner. He stopped when he heard chuckles coming from the kitchen. Confused, he got out of his bed to see what was going on—but before doing so, he changed himself into clean clothes.

By the time Peter got to the kitchen, he saw a man sitting at the dining table with today’s newspaper in his hands, while whistling to the music that was coming from the radio by the kitchen’s sink. At first, he didn’t recognize the man due to the morning sleepiness he still has, but all became clear when the man noticed his presence.

“Pete, my boy,” the man said in his warm inviting voice, smiling, “come sit down and eat your birthday breakfast. If you don’t want it, I will be very glad to eat it.”

Peter gave a childish, half tired, whine, “ _Nooo_!” He sits down to eat his pancakes.

As if on cue, a beautiful lady strolls into the kitchen, with the feeling of grace in the air, while putting her watch on her right wrist. “Honey, dear. You know that Peter doesn’t like it when you joke around with his pancakes.” The young lady bent down and kissed Peter on his forehead. “Good morning, baby boy. And happy birthday.” She smiles at him lovingly, for a second, just before she walks to the sink to start her morning chores.

“Better hurry up, pal. School is going to start soon.” The man said as he closed his newspaper, getting up from the chair to find his jacket.

“Okay, dad.” Peter also got up from the chair. He took his plate of half-eaten pancakes and walk towards his mother. “But do I _really_ have to go to school today? On my _birthday_?”

“Oh, sweetie.” The mother said, holding his face with the side of her hands. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, stay in school. School is important, and yada yada boring.” Peter puffed his cheeks out, to which his mother popped by gently slapping them.

“It’s only boring because you don’t want to be open-minded. You don’t want to learn and try new things.”

“Pete, I think it’s time that we should leave for school now.” Peter’s father said.

“Wait! What about my pancakes?”

“You could eat them on the way to school.”

“YES! Hey mom, can you—”

Peter’s mom handed him a container with sliced blueberry pancakes soaked in honey. “All ready.”

Peter grinned at his mother and gave her a hug. “Mom, you are the best.” He went into the living room to grab his backpack that has been waiting for him there since yesterday night.

He was halfway out the door when his mother called. “Wait, Peter!” Peter paused, turned around, and gave a questioning glance towards his mother. “I love you.”

Peter stared at her, taking in the beauty and love that his mom was glowing out. He smiled, “I love you too.”

Peter’s dad tackled him gently, which caused a giggle from Peter, before dragging him out the door. His father shouted with glee, “ _And I love you!_ ”

 

 

 

Peter wakes up on the old beaten couch, just as any other morning he lived since his parent’s death: cold, dark, and… _alone_.

Very alone.

Peter thinks that he could face his loneliness and the emptiness of this apartment by now, but he still remembers— _dreams_ how his mornings used to be years ago. Everything in his dream was so vivid. It was as if these things happened yesterday and not just many years ago. And because of that, these dreams will never fade away... They will always be a constant reminder of what he once had, of what he lost. Forever.

Peter's phone rings and vibrates on the table next to the couch, signaling that it was time for him to wake up and go to school. The alarm breaks him from his intense stare on the ceiling. Reaching out lazily with his right arm, Peter grabbs his phone. He turns off the alarm.

Seriously, what use is having an alarm for if you just keep waking up 10 minutes or so before it even rings?

Peter sighs and gets up from the couch, heading straight to his room to change and get ready for school. Just as any other normal teenager, he wasn't really looking forward to it. Don't get him wrong though, Peter loves to learn new things, he just didn't want to physically be there and interact with others, mainly bullies. But because his parents would always tell him that school is import, Peter does it in the memory of them. That, and, he needs a better job--a career--to pay for this apartment.

To pay for his home.


	4. Not Part of the Story, but an IMPORTANT CHANGE of the Story

SOOOOOO..... Hai.

 

It has been a long, long,  _long_ while and...

 

Life has changed me. School has changed me. And so has this story.

 

I know that a lot of you will leave eventually because of one of the biggest changes here...which will be revealed to you IF I decide to update this story anytime soon or at all.

 

I'm okay with y'all leaving because life has to go on for all of us.

 

This note was just to let you know that this fanfic work is taking a different course.

 

Thank you for listening, and I hope I'll be able to update soon for all of us.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to hit that kudos button, type a comment (I prefer positive ones), and/or click subscribe~~! ;p


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